Memories Grow As Flowers
by Laerkstrein
Summary: As a child, he had never been given the things he needed. As a father, he would give his own children what he himself had missed.


****Disclaimer: ****The _FullMetal Alchemist _characters used in this fic are the sole property of Hiromu Arakawa. I own nothing, save it be my own plot ideas and original characters. **  
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**Memories Grow As Flowers  
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**Prompt: **Paper flowers...**  
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**A/N: **Written for LJ.

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><p>Snow had fallen for days on end, enveloping the valley in a cold sheet of purest white. The temperatures had only continued to drop, forcing the villagers to throw more wood on their fires, creating plumes of thick smoke that rose up from every chimney. On a day as cold and wet as this, as hail had now begun to fall, one could not expect to see many people wandering about. The only ones who had dared venture out into the frozen tundra were the children, busying themselves with building snowmen, tunnels, and forts for snowball fights.<p>

The door large yellow house, perched alone on a hill, the inhabitants daring to venture out into the freeze. Breaths seemed to freeze and drop to the ground in a clump of ice as they walked, heading out to the snow-capped hill with the charred, rotting tree. Laughter bounced across the valley as the children, young but full of life, ventured away from their parents, darting up to the top of the hill to look down upon the graveyard. Under normal circumstances, the two were terrified of the place, fearing that the spirits of the dead would come to whisk them away. But today, seeing so much snow and peace, they rolled down the hill, coming to stop before a pair of stones, enveloped in snowfall.

A boy, no older than five, brushed off one of the stones with a gloved hand, smiling at the name that he could barely read. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper with a flower and heart glued to it, placing it gingerly upon the stone. He had worked hard to make it, having refused help from his parents as he had told his father that he wanted his grandparents to know that he was the one responsible for the master craft.

"It's beautiful," a warm voice said from behind him.

The boy turned, eyes bright as he clung to his father's coat. "You think so, Daddy?" he chirped, a smile spreading across his pink face. "You think Grandma and Grandpa Elric will like it?"

Gentle golden eyes began to tear up as the man held his son close. "They'll love it, Edwin," came the reply. "They're watching you now, wishing they could hold you in their arms."

As if to interrupt the moment, a high-pitched squeal reached his ears, causing him to turn and see his daughter, now turned three, rolling down the hill towards him. Eyes widened as she slammed into her brother, sending both of their tiny bodies flying through the snow. Upon sitting up and removing the snow from his face, the boy grimaced, giving his giggling sister a good push.

"That's not funny, Wendy!" he shouted, grabbing a handful of snow, pressing it against her face.

Wendy cried out, attempting to push her brother away with her pink boots before their father cut in. He stared down at them with mild disappointment, explaining that their grandparents wouldn't want to see their grandchildren fighting. As soon as they'd settled down, he watched as the two strolled to the next set of stones so Wendy could deliver her gift. She, too, had made a card, having painted a bright yellow daisy on it instead of using construction paper.

"Will Grammy Rockbell love it, Daddy?" she asked, tiny hands tugging on his scarf.

A loud shout from behind prevented him from answering as another man, as wide-eyed as himself, shot through the snow, scooping up the children in his arms. The two screamed and giggled, wriggling around so as to escape from their captor. Their father watched fondly, hand tracing the letters that had been carved into the stone. Proud as he was to be father to such wonderful little spirits, he couldn't help wishing that he'd been granted the same privilege as them. What was it like to be loved by a father, to have him there when he was needed?

He couldn't say that he _hated _the man after what he'd sacrificed to help them in the war, but there was still that sting that lingered in his heart. But seeing the pleased eyes of those he'd brought into the world seemed to ease the pain. He would give them what his father had been unable to give. Memories to love and cherish; memories that would engrave themselves upon their hearts; memories that would spread their roots and grow as flowers in the fresh fields of spring.

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><p>It's unclear as to what Edward and Winry named their children, so I improvised. <em><br>_


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